


Four Pines

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, M/M, Manly Men, Rustic Cabin Sex, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:05:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘What the fuck is there to do in Montana for two weeks?’</i>
</p><p>  <i>‘Hike,’ said Jack levelly. ‘Fish. Swim. Catch up on sleep.’ He paused, hooking his thumbs into his belt and pinning Brock with a stare. ‘Figure this shit out.’</i></p><p>Two weeks in a remote cabin in Montana sounded like hell to Brock. Still, he owed it to Jack to try and salvage their relationship. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that Brock had fucked Captain America. Well - not directly, anyway.</p><p>A story based on <a href="http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/124549999253/30-multipurpose-prompts-open-to-interpretation">these thirty prompts</a>, ably betaed by <a href="http://mathildia.tumblr.com/">Mathildia</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Pines

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Коттедж «Четыре сосны»](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250107) by [neun_geschichten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neun_geschichten/pseuds/neun_geschichten)



> This story is a companion piece to [Simpatico](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4131285). You can read it as a standalone, or read Simpatico down to where the link in the text indicates these events occur, come and read Four Pines, and then return to finish Simpatico.

**The 11th**

‘What is it?’ Brock looked at the envelope, long, plain and unmarked white. He let himself smirk. ‘A love letter?’

‘How likely d’you think that is?’ Jack said. His nostrils flared, just a little. He was looking tired again and it aged him past his forty-five years. He always looked tired these days. There was the work with its suddenly-compressed timeline, and his right knee, and Rogers. ‘Open it.’ Brock thumbed the flap open with a rustle and shook out four glossy boarding passes stamped in navy and silver.

‘Plane tickets?’ Brock’s eyebrows rose and Jack raised his right back. An early morning flight to L. M. Clayton airport for Blake Smith and Frank Liotta. ‘Did you—’

‘Paid in cash,’ said Jack, interrupting. He leaned back against the kitchen counter and the leather of his jacket squeaked. He still hadn’t taken his shoes off. He’d sent a quick text earlier, _Are you home? I want to give you something_ , and Brock had considered not replying out of sheer spite but he still couldn’t force himself to be that unkind. _Sure_ , he’d typed back noncommittally, and Jack had appeared within ten minutes and handed over the envelope without a word.

‘Half-expected it to be my keys back,’ Brock said, turning the passes over in his hand and pretending to read the small print on the reverse.  Jack sighed.

‘Drop the melodrama,’ he said. ‘Ain’t right, acting like that and then playing the victim.’ He folded his arms over his big chest. ‘Time off’s booked. Two weeks.’

‘Where’s the airport?’

‘Wolf Point, Montana.’

‘What the fuck is there to do in Montana for two weeks?’

‘Hike,’ said Jack levelly. ‘Fish. Swim. Catch up on sleep.’ He paused, hooking his thumbs into his belt and pinning Brock with a stare. ‘Figure this shit out.’

‘You’re flying us to Montana to _talk_?’ Brock’s lip curled. He felt it and tried – failed – to stop it. ‘We can talk here.’

‘Apparently not,’ Jack said. He stood up from the counter and fished in his back pocket for his car keys. ‘I’ve still got those passports. Pack some layers, it’ll get cold in the evenings. We leave on the 11th.’ Despite the jab and the sneer and the one-word text, he still came over and touched his right fingers to Brock’s cheek, brushed his lips perfunctorily over Brock’s skin. Jack didn’t slam doors. It clicked quietly behind him. His cedar aftershave hung in the air and Brock stood in the kitchen and read the tickets over and over again.

* * *

**Driving for many hours through mountains**

Brock drowsed on the way from the airport. Jack had immediately claimed the keys to the truck - of course he’d rented a truck, a moderately old but sturdy Ford - and thrown their bags into the back seat.

‘You might as well nap,’ said Jack as Brock sat tense and unmoving in the passenger seat. ‘It’s a two hour drive.’  Two hours, two weeks. The time stretched out in front of Brock, unending and inescapable.  Jack had picked him up at five that morning to drive them to the airport. That was twelve hours ago; Brock could sleep. He closed his eyes.

‘Turn on the radio,’ he demanded, and Jack clicked the buttons. There wasn’t much aside from static. The terrain was interfering with the signal. Too many mountains, not enough coverage. Eventually a country station came on clear; some heartbroken woman singing about a man. ‘Not that,’ Brock said. ‘I fucking hate country.’

‘Christ,’ said Jack, ‘you can sit in silence, then.’ He turned the radio off with a sharp snap of his wrist. 

* * *

**Lost at the creek**

‘Four Pines _what_?’ Brock folded the map in half. It had been two hours.

‘It’s the name of the place,’ said Jack. The truck juddered as he slowed down to read a road sign. He shook his head and sped up again, hands sure on the wheel. His red plaid cuffs were rolled up to just before his elbow. Brock tried not to look. It would be easier, he had decided on the flight, if he didn’t look, and definitely better if he didn’t touch. Jack made a turn and his forearms flexed, the little white burn scar, shaped like an asterisk, rippling on his inner arm.

‘Four Pines town, or Four Pines street, or...’ Brock trailed off, distracting himself.

‘It’s a lodge. An old cabin. Look at the map again, would you?’

‘We’re lost,’ Brock said with a shrug. ‘Our training didn’t prepare me for reading a bullshit map of a fucking forest.’ He was spoiling for a good fight, _pull the fuck over, let’s go now_ , he said to himself, trying to project the thought into Jack’s mind through sheer force of will. Jack pulled over onto the grass and took the map straight out of Brock’s hands. He flipped it over and ran a thick finger along the small road from the airport.

‘This is Wilcox,’ he said, half to himself. ‘We just passed... Adelaide, which ends... over here. On the parallel road. Yeah, it looks like we got lost at the creek.’

‘Looks like _I_ got us lost?’ Brock asked; that was surely what Jack meant. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and reached for his water bottle. He flicked the folded map back into Brock’s lap.

‘I know where we are now,’ he said curtly. They drove on. Brock rested his head against the passenger window and watched the trees roll by, an endless green sea. 

* * *

**Above, there is an attic**

Four Pines sat, as its name suggested, in the shadow of four tall trees. Three clustered around the back of the house, and another sat a little further away. Huddled back from the road as it was, it had the flavour of a hunting lodge from another time. If the shingles were greyed with age and edged with lichen, they were at least firmly attached, and the stone chimney anchoring the west wall promised that it would be warm inside. Although squat, there was a window set high near the eaves. Was it two-storey? Brock couldn’t tell from outside.

‘Well-built, look at it. At least seventy years old, that. Good craftsmanship,’ Jack said. He pulled the truck in close to the side of the cabin and got out. Brock watched as Jack walked up to a tree and opened a bird box. He took something small out and braved the uneven stone step up to the front door, which swung open for him with a creak audible even with the truck doors closed.

Brock looked at his cell phone: no signal, no nothing. ‘Fuck,’ he said quietly to himself. He followed Jack inside. Everything was scrupulously clean and aired. There was a faint smell of wood, and old smoke from the cold fireplace. Two wide, puffy couches with a blue crocheted afghan flung over one of them faced a big coffee table. A shelf above the window held a handful of books; Brock leaned in to read the spines. Jack London, Patrick O’Brien, poems by some guy called Masefield. The kind of thing that Jack would probably read. The back wall was taken up by a long counter, broken by an ancient stove with two gas rings on top. There was a narrow, steep set of stairs made of half-logs set into the walls, which led up to an attic that was more of a platform. Jack was already up the stairs, peering into the loft space.

‘Real nice,’ Jack called down to him. He beckoned Brock over and made room for him on the stairs. Brock climbed them with bad grace, but when he looked into what would serve as their bedroom he saw an impressive pile of quilts and blankets. Some conscientious person had folded them back into attractive layers. Reds and greens predominated and the pillows looked soft. There was no space for a real bed, so they’d be sleeping on a thin mattress. The window faced east. Brock imagined waking up there, bathed in sunlight and nestled in with Jack and he shivered, his bare elbow brushing Jack’s arm.

* * *

**In search of sea life**

Brock ran his eyes over the books on the shelf again.

‘They should have a wildlife book,’ he complained. ‘Or one about sea creatures or something.’

‘Sea creatures?’ Jack said. ‘River creatures.’ He said it with an expert aura, an air of finality.

 _Fuck you, arrogant asshole_ , thought Brock. 

* * *

**The tree is very old**

Jack had his head inside the stove, figuring out its inner workings. Already bored, Brock wandered outside. He paced from the doorway to each of the four tall pines in turn. At the first tree, he looked inside the bird box that Jack had opened. There was a tiny hook on its back wall for the door key. Clever. Covert. The fourth pine was greyish and listing a little more than the others, although it was thicker at the base. Even with the hushed sway of the forest around him, Brock could hear the tree creaking a little, protesting every time the wind tugged and pushed at it. He walked around it slowly, then away, down the gentle slope towards the river. It wasn’t hard to find. Brock thought that it would probably be easily visible from the roof of the low cabin, but even without a visual he could hear it less than a quarter of a mile away.

Someone had been here before. Not recently, perhaps, and not often, but there were traces of stone pushed into the earth in a loose path, and enough of a thinning of the undergrowth to indicate where to step. He trod cautiously, mindful of his shoes. Soon enough the trees thinned and he emerged onto the river bank, a smooth, grassy slope heading down to the water. The river curved a little here and over time had deposited big, uneven chunks of rock along the shallows. It would be easy enough to get down to the water.

Brock hunkered down on the grass and watched the water for a couple of minutes. Almost immediately, he felt the compulsion to make noise, make his presence felt. His hand fished in his pocket for his cell phone, but it was in the truck, switched off. There was no signal out here anyway. Instead, he picked up a stick and flicked it into the river. It caught on a rock and then spiralled away. Two weeks of this might be unbearable; two weeks of a one-room cabin and endless woods and a river. Two weeks of Jack’s grim silence whenever Brock tried to get a rise out of him. Two weeks of steeping in his own anger, and his own guilt. Brock stood up and turned back towards the cabin as a rumble of thunder sounded in middle distance and the wind suddenly picked up. Where else was there to go? 

* * *

**A figure at the edge of the woods**

When he turned, Brock saw a figure resolving itself through the tree line and froze for a second, his right hand going to his hip through pure reflex. It was Jack, of course, briefly unrecognisable in his red shirt and blue jeans ripped at one knee. Brock felt faintly uncomfortable, himself, out of place in his dark jeans and well-cut shirt. His civvies were expensive and sleek-looking, made for bars and restaurants and the well-tamed sidewalks of DC.

‘There’s a storm coming,’ Jack called to him as he made his way down the grassy bank. Brock couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Jack in anything but STRIKE black - or plain jeans and t-shirts at the weekends.

‘Thought I’d go for a swim,’ said Brock, gesturing to his clothes with a flourish.

‘If lightning hits the water, it’ll fry you like a fish,’ Jack cautioned, as if Brock was about to jump right in wearing this season’s Diesel jeans. He snapped his fingers at Brock, held his hand out as if beckoning over a dog. ‘C’mon, get indoors.’  A wash of heat flooded up Brock’s face.

‘Hey, if I get hit by lightning I’ll no longer be your problem,’ he said. ‘Hell, the river will wash me away, you won’t even have to deal with a body.’

‘Christ,’ said Jack, flinging his arms up in the air. ‘I’m telling you to get indoors before you get wet. Why you always gotta ruin shit?’ Brock walked right up to him and shoved him in the chest.

‘Why do you treat me like a fucking idiot? I’m your CO and you act like I’m a goddamn child.’ He stepped closer, standing on his tiptoes to look Jack in the eye. His chest brushed Jack’s.

‘You’re acting like a child,’ snorted Jack. ‘Get down off your toes, you don’t intimidate me.’ He grabbed hold of Brock’s shoulders and shook him until his teeth clacked together. Jack’s fingers pinched in hard. ‘CO,’ he said, curling his top lip away from his teeth. He leaned in close to Brock’s ear, feral and tightly-wound. ‘You wouldn’t have made it out of training without me around, army kid.’ The pet name stung.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Brock spat, struggling away and bringing his fists up defensively, ready to fight. Jack back-handed him in the face. By the time Brock brought his hand down and licked the blood off his lip and palm, Jack had disappeared back into the trees.

* * *

**Horses anticipating a storm**

Off in the distance, on the other side of the river, a thinning of the trees indicated a farm or a ranch. The wind ebbed momentarily, and Brock caught the sound of horses fretting and whinnying with the oncoming storm. He sympathised. He dragged his feet back to the cabin, his lip stinging.

* * *

**Face on the other side of a dark window**

With the sky darkening for a late afternoon storm, Jack had started the generator and switched on the cabin’s lights. They were funny, anachronistic things – fake lamps with a warm yellow glow. Brock kicked off his shoes by the door and made for the overstuffed couch. Coming in from the cold, the cabin had a definite appeal. He stared out the window for a moment, mindlessly awaiting inspiration. The sky was a roiling dark grey now. Jack passed the window on the way back from the truck and glanced in at him, the sharp planes of his face made more dramatic by the strange light. He pushed in with bags of food hooked over his arm and made for the kitchen area.

‘You know what?’ Brock said suddenly, jumping to his feet and following Jack. Jack turned and regarded him, stacking the bags up on the counter. He massaged a red dent in his forearm with his thumb.

‘What?’

‘You don’t get to fucking hit me and walk away.’ Brock folded his arms, expecting another fight. Jack blew out a long breath and nodded.

‘All right.’ He stretched out a hand and touched Brock’s mouth. Brock’s lips parted a little. Jack’s hand smelled like gasoline from tinkering with the generator; his fingertips were calloused from shooting. He rolled Brock’s lower lip out, inspecting the damage. ‘Just your tooth on the inside of your lip,’ he said. And then, ‘sorry.’

‘For hitting me or for telling me I’m useless?’ Brock asked, inclined to push the advantage. Jack lifted his right hand and tilted it from side to side.

‘Bit of both?’ The words hung in the air. Outside, thunder rolled again. Jack took in a sharp inhale, about to speak.

‘I gotta piss,’ Brock said. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ 

* * *

**A blue tin kettle**

‘There’s an outhouse,’ said Jack, turning and belatedly putting the milk and eggs in the tiny, dilapidated fridge. Brock stared at him, aghast.

‘An outhouse.’

‘Yeah. Round the back.’

‘There’s electricity but no fucking toilet?’

‘Generator,’ Jack said, opening cupboards on crockery, pans and cleaning supplies by turns. ‘And the water from the faucet’s filtered from the river, so it’s drinkable.’ He filled the kettle as he spoke and set it on the hob. There was a brief, blue flare as the gas caught. ‘Coffee?’ He shook a foil bag in Brock’s direction.

‘Did you swallow the guidebook?’ Brock said spitefully. Jack laughed, a short cough.

‘Checked the shed when we arrived,’ he said. ‘There’s a decent fire pit, too. Fish for dinner, if we can catch some. And baked potatoes. Bought about a pound of butter.’ With his plaid shirt and well-worn tan boots and his hair curling soft and natural around his ears, Jack leaned against the log walls like it was his home. He hadn’t shaved that morning and his stubble was growing in, a little darker than his hair. There was a tiny, pottery jar of toothpicks on the counter and Jack was sucking on one absentmindedly.

 _Don’t look_ , Brock thought to himself. _Don’t make this harder_. He found the outhouse, chasing away a spider from the handle and peering down the hole. The seat looked okay; still, he went to piss in the woods instead, hurrying before the heavens opened.

When he came back inside to wash his hands, Jack was pressing down the plunger of the coffee filter. He poured out two mugs: terracotta brown, earthenware. It looked right in Jack’s big, battered hands. Brock appraised him in a new light; a creature of fire and earth and wood. Jack’s propensity for grilling things and reading survival guides began to make sense.

‘Is it too cold to swim in the river?’ Brock asked. ‘I mean, do we have a shower or do we have to live like animals?’ Unbidden, the thought of Jack walking naked into the water swam into Brock’s consciousness. Early morning sun on his muscled back; long, easy overarm strokes.

‘There’s a shower,’ said Jack, ‘but the river might take the edge off any sinful thoughts.’ He gave Brock a knowing grin. _Don’t look_ , Brock reminded himself. _Don’t fucking touch_. 

* * *

**One foot in another world**

‘Christ almighty,’ Jack swore as the forest outside lit up with sheet lightning. The sky was uncanny and the noise in the cabin almost painful on the ears. They had gravitated towards one another as the storm had picked up, oddly on edge. ‘It’s like the end of days.’ Sprawled on the couch with his feet on Jack’s lap, Brock watched the storm with eyes half-closed.

‘It’s an omen,’ he said. ‘It’s gonna be like this the whole two weeks.’ He threw an arm across his eyes, hiding from the intermittent flashes of lightning. Jack rumbled a laugh.

‘It’ll be fine tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Anyway, if was bad like this the whole time, we could just stay indoors.’

‘Great,’ drawled Brock. ‘Two fucking weeks living the good life in a wooden box.’

‘Your life would be easier if you didn’t turn everything into a personal insult,’ Jack said, idly rubbing one of Brock’s feet with his knuckles. Brock snorted and kicked out at his hand.

‘How is it not an insult to drag me out here?’ Brock asked. ‘You didn’t even ask me about it.’

‘You didn’t ask me before you fucked someone else,’ Jack retorted, and that was it; Brock rolled off the couch and stamped his way up the protesting stairs to lie on the bed instead. ‘Real mature,’ Jack called after him. ‘Real fucking mature.’

Brock flung himself down on the mattress and ignored him, rolling onto his belly and watching the rain sheet down outside through the tiny window under the eaves. It was uncanny. The unnatural light suffused the loft, flickering and shifting as lightning ripped across the sky. Brock’s hands looked pale and bluish in it. The knots in the cabin’s roof stared down at him like malevolent eyes. The sky was streaked with dark clouds and there was nothing, nothing but trees for miles. The rest of the world could have ceased to exist. Perhaps it had, and there was only him and Jack and their pride, bottled up in this tiny cabin until the universe burned out.

* * *

**Sunlight on rumpled sheets and the smell of pine**

Brock floated out of sleep to the high, insistent whistle of a kettle. He rolled over, expecting to meet Jack’s solid presence as he had when he briefly woke in the early hours, disoriented and caught up in the layers of bedclothes. The stack of mismatched blankets was tangled around him, warm and smelling faintly like the old wood of the cabin. Jack’s shirt lay abandoned on his pillow and Brock rolled his face into it, contemplating going back to sleep with the heavy, sweet smell of Jack in his nostrils. The narrow stairs creaked. He could feel the faint vibration through the floorboards.

‘Morning,’ Jack said softly and handed him a heavy mug of coffee. Brock slid up to sit against the wall and took it.

‘What time is it?’ His voice felt rusty. He scrubbed at his eyes.

‘Nine, almost. You slept for ten hours.’

‘Nine?’ Brock jerked and slopped coffee over his wrist. ‘Jesus. Can’t remember the last time I slept that late.’ Jack smiled at him, a slow bloom of teeth. The morning sun shafted in the skylight and highlighted his crooked nose, his scarred chin. The narrow white scar across his temple from a bullet graze. He wore another plaid shirt, blue and green today, and once again the sleeves were loosely rolled up. An old knot of scar tissue under his clavicle peeked out the neckline.

‘We don’t have anywhere to be,’ Jack said. They sipped coffee in silence for a while. Jack had put a good splash of cream in Brock’s coffee. At home, Brock drank the strong, acidic coffee from the machine black like the rest of the team but God, he loved real cream, real coffee beans.

‘Quiet here,’ Brock said after a few minutes. And it was - just the wind outside and soft bird sounds and the occasional creak of the cabin’s logs shifting. Too quiet to spoil by picking a fight.

* * *

**Wanderer on a scorched path**

The boredom of sitting around the cabin quickly began to chafe Jack. He’d never been very good at sitting still, unless he had his nose in a book. As soon as he’d finished his coffee and eaten several slices of bread covered in jam while leaning against the kitchen counter, he was stamping his feet into his boots. He glanced over at Brock.

‘Coming?’

‘Where?’ Brock asked, eyeing Jack’s beatific expression with suspicion.

‘Oh, out. See what the storm did. Maybe drop some lines in the river, catch us some dinner.’

‘I’ll stay here and... you know.’ Brock cast his gaze around the cabin. Jack had brought a few books with him: _Cold War Tanks: the Illustrated Guide_ , _Advanced Fly-fishing Techniques_ and a thick blue volume about handguns. None seemed particularly inspiring.

‘Put your sneakers on,’ Jack told him. ‘Come on.’

Just past the last of the four pine trees, lightning had scorched down the side of a tree. A heavy branch lay across the tiny, winding path. Jack vaulted it; Brock leaped to stand on it and jumped down the other side. They walked parallel to the river for a while. The air was rich with the smell of fresh, wet earth and the sky was clear this morning, rinsed fresh and blue by the storm. A bird trilled a run of notes and Jack imitated it with ease. After about an hour, Jack sat himself down on a large, mossy chunk of rock and slid his backpack down off his shoulder. He pulled out a water bottle, drank and offered it to Brock. They sat side by side for a while in companionable silence, sharing some kind of protein bar and listening to the trees rustle. 

* * *

**It had no eyes**

‘Ugh,’ Brock said, stumbling off the narrow dirt trail. There was a little brown rabbit lying under some leaves. It was crawling with flies, limp and wet and beginning to decompose. He had almost stepped on it. His running shoes were already starting to seep water through the instep and the thought of squashing the soft, decaying body with damp shoes instinctively repulsed him. Jack turned around and tramped back a few paces.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘just kick it under the bushes.’

‘These are two hundred dollar running shoes,’ Brock said, picking up a stick and scraping the body away. ‘Can’t believe you flew us all this way for rain and dead animals. Nature is fucking gross.’

‘Need me to carry you, army kid?’ Jack said, flashing his teeth.

* * *

**A hero in the wrong**

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Brock all in a rush as he marched into the tiny cabin much later, back from taking a piss. Jack looked up from his book and opened his mouth. Brock cut him off with the abrupt, closed-fist gesture he typically used in the field. _Silent approach_. ‘There are always so many fucking girls with you.’ Jack folded a till receipt into his book and drew his long legs down off the low table. He sat forward, elbows on knees.

‘I left my other phone at home,’ he said, in a placid way which immediately incensed Brock.

‘You didn’t leave it at home for fifteen goddamn years.’ He ground his teeth. ‘Fifteen years of constant fucking text messages and you disappearing wherever with your teenage porn stars.’ He was shaking; he balled his hands into tight fists.

‘You never said anything before.’ Jack’s voice was carefully and precisely neutral. Brock wanted to punch him for it. Jack was going to make him say it, waiting him out and playing dumb.

‘One time,’ Brock said through the tightening sensation in his throat. ‘The one time I fuck someone else, he’s like an American hero, he’s _the_ American hero. He’s the next best thing to a demi-god, all right, don’t deny that you’ve looked at him too. One time, I fuck him, and suddenly this shit matters.’

‘He knew we were together,’ Jack countered. ‘Being a hero doesn’t make him right. You could even question the heroism.’ He rolled the sunken knuckles of one hand slowly against the palm of the other, making them pop and crack. ‘He’s on the other side.’

‘Since when have you given a shit about sides - Hydra, the government, SHIELD, anything?’ Brock yelled. It just came out, welling up and bursting into the air. ‘You’ve always said nobody can stop you doing what you want. What about what I want?’

‘Right. What you want is to stay quiet for fifteen years about a bunch of meaningless girls, and then peacock about because you got fucked by Captain America. Jesus. You’re thirty-seven years old. Grow up.’

‘I fucked _him_ ,’ Brock corrected. Jack barked out a laugh and shook his head.

‘Jesus,’ he said again. ‘You’re such a mess. We’re having this conversation and you think the most important thing is that I know who took it up the ass. You’re this little ball of insecurity. You can never relax, can you?’

‘Is that why you spend so much time with women? You need to get away from me?’

Jack blew out a long breath and inspected his hands.  ’Now and then, yeah.’ 

* * *

**How far can you carry this?**

It was hard to storm off meaningfully in the middle of the woods. Brock got as far as the river, panting from shoving through bushes and trees, and then pulled up hard. He was sweating, and as soon as he stopped moving the sweat started evaporating, chilling him. It was starting to get dark and the clouds were low and heavy in the sky, promising more rain that night. Brock roiled inside; heart thumping, a little nauseous. It had been a long time since he’d had to deal with a problem that couldn’t be solved with his fists, if indeed he ever had.

He imagined the truck starting right now, Jack driving away with Brock’s cell phone in the side door. What would the cabin look like, empty but for his own canvas duffel bag? What would his apartment back home look like without Jack’s overstuffed brown leather armchair in the corner? He pictured the shelf in his kitchen cabinet with bottles of alcohol, minus all the whiskey. The second nightstand, bereft of books; the spare cell phone charger in the drawer gone. Long weekends of mindlessly watching TV or trawling bars for the right kind of entertainment. A sudden, vivid flash of memory assailed him: Prague, 2001. A collapsing door frame had hit him in the back of the head, rendering everything black and cold for a few minutes. He’d gasped for back-up into his mic and, almost immediately, Jack’s voice had come through to him, telling him to keep his eyes open. He imagined speaking into his mic on a mission and hearing only silence.

‘It’s gonna kill you, you know.’ Brock started; Jack was standing behind him, piercing him with a stare.

‘What?’ Brock spat.

‘It’s gonna kill you if you don’t learn to stop fucking fighting everything.’ Jack rubbed the back of his neck, shoved irritably at his shirt sleeves.  He spat out his toothpick. ‘It’s gonna kill you.’

‘Kill me how?’

‘You drag all this shit around, all the time. Everything’s an insult, everything’s an international fucking incident. It’s like you’re never out of the field.’ Jack shook his head like a dog with ear mites. He came closer, slowly, carefully.

‘Sweet, so you’re planning on following me around for two weeks lecturing me on my failings?’ Brock bared his teeth in a cynical smile. ‘Might as well save yourself the effort and give me the truck keys. I’ll drive myself home and you can stay here with your books and your fishing.’

‘Jesus, Brock,’ said Jack. ‘This is what I’m talking about. I don’t wanna fight. I don’t wanna see you fighting yourself, either.’ He put a heavy arm over the back of Brock’s shoulders, drew him a step closer. His big hand rubbed the back of Brock’s right shoulder blade, pushing down into the muscle. ‘How far can you carry this until it gets you killed? Until you fuck up on a mission? Hell, or just drop dead of a heart attack.’

* * *

**Please, let’s go home**

‘Fine,’ Brock said into Jack’s shirt. ‘I won’t do it again. I’ll leave Rogers alone. It was dumb anyway.’ The next line was like pulling teeth but he choked it out anyway. ‘I’ve had you fifteen years and I don’t want to throw this shit away.’

‘Sometimes we do dumb stuff,’ Jack said. He shifted his weight for a minute and his belt buckle fleetingly pressed up into Brock’s hip. ‘Left you alone a few nights myself. With the girls. Anyway, that can’t go on forever. It starts to look a bit desperate at my age.’ Brock extricated his face from Jack’s collar and stared up at him. Jack was gazing off into middle distance, still rubbing absently at Brock’s back.

‘You serious?’

‘Ah well,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll ditch the phone when we get home. To be honest, I can’t say I thought about it much. I figured since you never said anything that you didn’t care.’

‘I don’t even know where to start with that,’ said Brock.

‘Don’t have to start,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s just leave it.’ He paused, and his eyes scanned from side to side as if he was reading something written along the horizon. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘we could go round and round forever, or we could just drop it all.’

‘Great,’ Brock said, letting out an explosive breath. ‘So can we go home now? I’ve got bug bites on my ass.’

‘Nah,’ Jack said. ‘I still have to teach you how to fish. You got another ten days yet, army kid.’ 

* * *

**Unearthed bones**

The bones sat light in Brock’s hand; tiny, pale bones, old and fragile yet still clinging together somehow.

‘A bird,’ he said. He tipped his hand sideways to show Jack. The skeleton tumbled over his fingers and broke as it hit the ground, one wing crumbling away into nothing.

‘You’re always breaking things,’ Jack said with wry amusement, and he pushed leaf litter over the bird bones with a casual sweep of his hand. 

* * *

**Forgetting why it mattered**

The drive to the nearest town – such as it was – took almost an hour. They didn’t meet a single vehicle on the road; in fact, as the road widened into a real thoroughfare and a cluster of houses and shops appeared, the sight of a scant handful of working trucks was a surprise.

‘Milk,’ Jack said as they walked around the tiny general store. ‘Cheese. More eggs.’

‘Coke,’ added Brock, darting towards the cold cabinets. ‘And beer.’ He came back with a can of soda clutched covetously in his hand and two six-packs against his hip. He dropped them into Jack’s basket. ‘The attendant’s staring,’ he added under his breath.

‘Let him stare,’ said Jack, poring over the bacon shelf. He suddenly brightened. ‘Hey, if we can find trail mix or something, we could do a day hike.’ Brock shrugged, still eyeing the idly curious attendant. He stepped back behind a shelf. ‘Bread for sandwiches,’ Jack continued, and then looked over at Brock, following his gaze over to the cashier. He set the basket down.

Jack was always quick for his size and he could be unpredictable; although he looked like a slugger he could duck and weave with the best of them. He struck out like a snake, grabbing Brock and turning him until his back pressed up against the cold glass of the refrigerator, pinning him with a big thigh.

‘Stop it,’ muttered Brock, trying to pull away. Jack kissed him, sucking on his lower lip as if they were in a Hollywood movie, making it good, making Brock push his hips towards Jack’s thigh. Jack had one hand on Brock’s hip and the other on his face, thumb under his chin; Jack’s stubble prickled over Brock’s skin. Brock wanted it, his body suddenly and intensely craving Jack’s touch and his attention. Still, he couldn’t make himself close his eyes. The attendant moved out of view but there was a camera, a security camera above the store entrance. Brock struggled in Jack’s grip, conflicted, until the sound of someone politely clearing their throat made Jack pull away. A middle-aged woman smiled at them, tilting her head, and reached past Brock to take a bottle of milk.

‘Excuse me, you two,’ she simpered, and drifted off towards the baked goods. Jack reached for Brock again but Brock stepped lightly out of range and picked up the basket like a shield.

Outside, Brock stamped his way back to the truck with a glower. ‘You know I always keep a knife in my boot,’ Jack said. ‘What’s going to happen? Nobody at work would give a shit, even.’

‘I call you Rollins at work,’ Brock said, buckling his seatbelt. ‘Or my SIC, if they don’t know you.’ He snapped open his can of Coke and drank deeply.

‘I know,’ snorted Jack. ‘What about to friends?’

‘Isn’t really anyone outside of work,’ said Brock, after thinking for a moment. ‘You know how hard it is, with what we do.’

‘ _I_ have friends,’ Jack said, stretching his long arm over the back of Brock’s seat. He cocked his head, considering, his hand hovering over the ignition with his car key. ‘Not sure I talk about you, though, now that I think about it.’

‘What would you even say? We’re too old for... boyfriends.’ Brock cringed as he said it.

‘Boyfriends,’ Jack chuckled. He adjusted the mirror, started the truck and pulled out into the road.

‘Partner sounds fucking gay, though,’ Brock said, wrinkling his nose.

‘Lovers?’ Jack’s voice dropped from deep to gravel. The truck hummed.

‘Jesus,’ Brock said, finishing his soda. ‘If you’re going to be like that, pull over.’ He unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for Jack, shifting onto his left hip.

‘I can multi-task,’ Jack said with a rumbling laugh, and then a gasp, and then five minutes later he did pull over, parking them on a little trail behind a few sparse trees for privacy. 

* * *

**Small birds, dry grass**

There were dozens of tiny birds around the cabin, Brock had noticed. Little chirping brown things, sparrows, perhaps. He had a hazy notion of catching one in his bare hands like a woodsman, of carrying it inside to show Jack. What Jack would say, he had no idea; still, he imagined capturing one and looking at it properly, its little beak and head markings and wings beating against his hands. He kept low to the ground with the wind behind him. If a bobcat or a deer could smell him, surely a bird could too. He’d kicked his sneakers off and he tried to step lightly on the dying grass that clung precariously to the well-used soil around the cabin’s front door. Two metres away from the flock, they startled and hopped further away. Brock froze and waited. He moved again, hardly breathing, hands outstretched. The squeak of the cabin window opening sent the birds flying in all directions with anxious cheeps.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jack asked, amused.

‘Trying to catch a bird,’ Brock said. ‘What does it look like?’

‘What were... did you really think that was going to work?’

‘I was careful,’ Brock said. ‘I was downwind and everything.’ Jack choked with laughter, banged his fist on the windowsill in mirth.

‘Birds can’t smell you, Brock. Jesus wept. Fuck.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Come inside and quit harassing the wildlife.’

* * *

**A book infested with ghosts**

‘You’re reading?’ Jack said, dragging the smell of grass and earth into the cabin with him.

‘Sometimes I read,’ Brock said absently. He pushed up his sleeve yet again - Jack’s shirts were a little large - and turned the page. The book was too large to comfortably hold one-handed, but he’d settled on the sofa with his right ankle up on his left thigh which made a perfect rest. Jack came around to look over his shoulder.

‘Guest book?’

‘Sort of,’ said Brock, half-closing the book and running a thumb down the worn gold scrolling on the spine. ‘Someone kept a journal, then someone else came along and added to it, and then people started writing messages.’ He tipped the pages into his right hand and showed Jack the inside cover. H. D. Moran, 12th July, 1947. Jack whistled.

‘Bet Moran built the cabin,’ he said.

‘Would have loved to see that,’ Brock chuckled, looking up at Jack. ‘She was a kid. Maybe a teenager.’

‘Then who?’ Jack asked, settling on the arm of the sofa and leaning in. He’d ploughed through the last chapters of his book on tank warfare the night before, and at any rate, anything old unfailingly piqued his interest.

‘Never says, but it’s dated 1968. The first entry, I mean.’ Brock flicked through, angled the book over. ‘Another girl, I think. It’s just a few pages, then there’s some torn out.’ He navigated further, into the second half of the book. ‘After that people used it as a guest book.’

‘Starting 1988,’ Jack noted, touching the blue cursive scrawl of the first date. ‘Probably a family vacation home until then.’ They leafed through the book, pages of carefully written notes about dates, visitors, wildlife, honeymoons, memories. The leather binding creaked as they reached the most recent entry.

‘February 2011,’ said Brock. ‘Been a while.’

‘Folk don’t care to live in the middle of nowhere anymore,’ said Jack. He peeked over onto the next page, smooth and cream and untouched. ‘Want to write in it before we go?’

‘Brock and Jack, September 2012,’ said Brock. ‘Fought and fucked a lot. Day four, saw a bullshit eagle.’ Jack snickered.

‘Sure, we’ll write that,’ he said. ‘Not like anyone can read our writing anyway.’

‘Have we even got a pen?’ Brock snapped the book shut. The smell of old leather and dusty paper made him cough, and then he shivered.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jack asked. Brock shrugged.

‘Goose walking on my grave,’ he said. ‘Just weird, thinking about someone reading shit we write in sixty years time, after we’re both dead.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Jack as he stood up and stretched with a cracking noise. ‘I intend to live forever. Power of clean living.’ He ambled off to make coffee. 

* * *

**The sensation of falling as experienced in a dream**

‘I got a treat for you,’ said Jack, suddenly materialising above Brock, who was sprawled on the larger of the two couches taking a nap. The previous day’s hike had been more tiring than he cared to admit; not for him another day of physical exertion, thank you. Catlike, Brock liked to store up energy when he could get a day off. Jack had one arm braced on the back of the couch and the other hidden behind his back.

‘Is it your dick?’ Brock said, with mock weariness.

‘Better,’ Jack laughed. ‘Nah, I’m kidding, there’s nothing better.’

‘You got me, I’m interested,’ said Brock. Jack came around and sat on the edge of the couch. From behind his back, with a rather rough flourish, he produced a tall black box with embossed gold lettering.

‘Glenlivet,’ he said with a grin. ’Eighteen years old.’

‘Eighteen,’ Brock said, propping himself up on one elbow to take a look. ‘Look at that. That’s the good stuff.’ He paused, verifying Jack’s good mood. ‘You’ve fucked girls younger than that this year _alone_.’ He nudged Jack’s hip with his knee.

‘All right, all right. C’mon, let’s go drink in a field.’

‘It’s the American way,’ said Brock, in a poor imitation of one of Rogers’ hearty pep talks. He grabbed Jack’s outstretched hand and let himself be hauled up.

An hour later, the idea of drinking in a field, which had been somewhat spoiled by the dampness of the grass, was rendered deeply enjoyable by the Glenlivet. They drank it out the bottle, trading off swigs, until Brock’s head was swimming and his skin was hot all over. Jack parked the bottle in some kind of rodent hole for a moment and rolled them over clumsily. He straddled Brock’s chest and snatched the bottle up.

‘Open wide,’ he said, and he trickled the whiskey into Brock’s open mouth, over his tongue, warm and tingling and almost too much to swallow. Brock gulped, and swallowed it all down, and Jack leaned in and licked at his lips hungrily, lapped at his mouth until the ground felt like it was falling away and the only important thing in the world was Jack’s wicked tongue.

* * *

**Conversations with the crows**

‘Grark, grark, you noisy bastards,’ said Jack to the crows as he struck a match onto the fire. Much to Brock’s disgust it flared to life immediately, the kindling catching in a perfect coil of flame which licked up the carefully-piled branches. He recalled hours of sweating over tiny stacks of kindling when he was in the army, endlessly knocking them over or letting the sparks he struck with his knife blade scatter harmlessly on the dirt and peter out. The well-funded and up-to-the-minute resources afforded to his STRIKE team by SHIELD were a joy; he’d never had to start a fire in the field before, and he had no intention of ever doing so, if possible. Besides, with Jack around, he’d never have to.

Next to him, Jack carefully gutted the two long, sleek trout he’d caught earlier, flicking away the innards with the tip of the knife. A large crow came to land on a low-hanging branch and watched with bright, intelligent eyes. It cawed softly, and above it, in the tree, another crow cawed back. Jack looked up at the bird and smiled, almost to himself. He turned to Brock with a handful of sharpened sticks.

‘What am I doing with these?’ Brock asked.

‘Making yourself useful,’ Jack told him. ‘Stick a fish on the end, stick the other end in the ground until the fire’s ready.’

‘These are disgusting,’ declared Brock, poking at one of the fish with the end of a stick.

‘You like fish,’ Jack told him. ‘Anyway, you shot that fucker in the face in Tutasá from point blank range and _laughed_. Don’t pretend you’re squeamish now.’ Brock remembered that; in particular, remembered the way Jack had looked with blood spatter up one side of his neck and cheek, hair slicked back out the way and a the light from a failing bulb flickering across his face. He’d been half-devil, half-action hero that night, and as soon as they’d made camp he’d pressed Brock down into his sleeping bag and taken him roughly with a sweaty hand over his mouth to stifle his desperate, wanting noises.

Jack stood up and brushed some flecks of blood and scale off his jeans.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Forked sticks,’ Jack said enigmatically and traipsed off into the darkening woods. The crow leaped from its branch as he passed with a shriek. ‘Grark, grark,’ Jack replied amiably, disappearing among the trees.

* * *

**The photograph**

The photograph was tucked away at the very back of the drawer. It was loose, and he only found it because it scuffed against the guest book when he slid it back in. It depicted a young woman, serious-faced in a floral dress with the woods behind her. Her dark hair was curled into a gentle wave over one shoulder. In one slim hand she held a book. A long, slightly crooked line of copperplate spidered across the reverse: _Hilda, her last summer at Four Pines. TB took her 1949. Buried by river she loved._ Brock shivered again. Down by the river, just where it curved gently to the north, there was a mossy little cairn of stones. 

* * *

**The protection of laughter**

‘Seems unfair.’ Brock was lying on the grass with his feet up on a fallen tree branch. Their nest in the loft was tightening up the left side of his back, where he’d taken a heavy impact under fire a few years ago. Elevating his feet and dropping his lower back to the ground sometimes helped. By his side, Jack rested one hand on his fishing rod and wrapped the other around his beer bottle.

‘Hmm?’

‘Life. I dunno. Remember way back, when we first wound up in DC? I could fuck again after a fifteen minute break. Now I can’t even sleep on a regular mattress without my hip acting up.’ He slid a fist under his hip, working his knuckles in against the deep knot of tension.

‘I remember,’ said Jack, his voice very low. ‘When I first moved into that place with the Murphy bed.’ He shifted, tugged at the inseam of his jeans.

‘Three hours,’ Brock said. ‘You messed up your back.’

‘ _You_ messed up my back,’ Jack argued. ‘Riding me like a goddamn cowboy. That bed was such a piece of shit.’

‘We’re so fuckin’ old,’ Brock said. ‘I got grey hairs in my eyebrows.’

‘What the hell,’ Jack said. He stood his beer against the branch and jammed his fishing rod into the bank. ‘Let me see.’ With a quick roll onto his hip, he got in close and cupped Brock’s chin to look. Brock looked at him upside down and tried to cover his face with his hands.

‘No, c’mon,’ Brock said.

‘This I gotta see,’ Jack pressed, smacking his hands away. They roughhoused on the grass, wrestling awkwardly. With his feet up, Brock struggled to get leverage. ‘I don’t see it,’ Jack said breathlessly, finally getting his face up close to Brock’s and squinting. Brock squirmed.

‘C’mon,’ he said again, weakly batting at Jack’s face. ‘Shit. Okay. Okay. Look, I pluck ‘em out when I find them.’

‘No!’ Jack yelled in disbelieving glee. His foot beat irregularly on the ground and sent his beer flying. ‘Ah, _fuck_.’ 

* * *

**Each time we climb the stairs, something changes**

In the absence of more obvious entertainment, they had had sex every night, and some mornings, too. There was an immediacy to life in the cabin. Bedtime had become a joint ritual. With no laptop or cell phone signal, no work schedules or separate houses, they climbed the stairs to the loft together. In the absence of hot water they dipped clean in the river if it was warm enough; every time Jack was within arm’s reach Brock was struck by the rich, warm smell of him. Sweat and campfire smoke and petrichor and coffee, pine and mint and fresh mountain air where he hung his shirts out the window at night to refresh them.  

Each time they climbed the steep stairs together, pressed hip to hip, a little more of Brock shucked away. Some nights he came as soon as Jack touched him, raw and ready for him and primed for it by Jack’s constant animal presence. In his turn, Jack was quicker to reach out and reel him in, more ardent, less controlled. He forgot to speak in full sentences; his usual calm, inexorable approach to sex dissolved into grabbing and biting, the rough press of his body over Brock’s. Their blankets smelled of sweat and sex. It clung to Brock’s skin and hair. Sometimes, outside, he would catch their scent when the wind changed direction and immediately the compulsion to reach for Jack would wash over him, nose down to belly. His desire was a new, insistent, coiling thing, snatching at him unexpectedly and always, always reciprocated when he turned to Jack with his mouth dry and a sudden flush under his skin.

The ebb and flow of their days intensified; each time they climbed those stairs, something broke and healed again. Each time they reached for each other, Brock found himself wanting it more. With Jack’s hands on him, his hot mouth on him, nothing but the slow press and slide of skin on skin, Brock floated.

Tonight Jack was kneeling with Brock’s hips pulled up into his lap. With his head tipped over the edge of the mattress, blood thrummed wildly in Brock’s temples. ‘Oh shit,’ Brock slurred; Jack’s big hands were warm and rough on his sides, tugging their bodies together. Jack was letting out deep, soft groans in rhythm. ‘Oh, fuck,’ said Brock, staring stupidly up at the sweat on Jack’s face and chest. Unguarded, Jack’s head was tipped back, his mouth a little open and his eyes closed. ‘Jesus,’ Brock panted. ‘Jesus, fuck, please—’ He broke off, arching off the bed, his feet pressing into Jack’s back and a hot rush moving through him, converging on his belly and then twisting, coiling, tipping him over the edge into climax. ‘Fuck, Jack,’ he said hazily as Jack cursed above him, leaned down and bit at the sharp line of Brock’s ribcage.

They rolled apart, uncoordinated and dazed.

 ‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ Jack said with a huge laugh bubbling up through his chest. He exploded for a minute and had to wipe tears from his eyes.

‘What the hell?’ Brock said, staring at him with a smile starting to crack his own mouth.

‘You,’ said Jack. ‘ _Oh Jesus_ , _oh Christ_ , _oh God_ , _oh Lord_ , thought you were about to start in on a Hail Mary or two for good measure.’

‘You asshole,’ Brock said wonderingly. ‘Wow. That was really fucking good, okay, I was being appreciative.’ He bridled, tugging a green woven blanket up his chest a little. Jack made a grab for him and soothed him with big, warm strokes of his hands down Brock’s face and shoulders and back.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘I know. I like you loud. How come you never cut loose for me like that at home, huh?’

‘Huh,’ repeated Brock, noncommittally. He waved his hand, fishing for words. Jack moved in closer and slid his face up under Brock’s jaw, breathing big, open-mouthed kisses onto his skin. Without Jack looking at him, it was easier. ‘There’re always people, I guess.’

‘Mmm,’ Jack replied, his lips buzzing against Brock’s neck. Overstimulated and overwhelmed, Brock went to push at him. Jack caught his wrists and kissed his neck again.

‘It’s private,’ Brock said.

‘You care too much what other people think,’ said Jack. He caught Brock’s earlobe between his teeth and sucked on it. Brock was powerless to stop the groan that welled up out of him. 

* * *

**Wildness on the loose**

On a warm morning with a few clouds scudding across the sky, Brock watched from the window as Jack prowled down to the river in just his jeans and boots. His pants were undone and he wore nothing underneath; his belt was still coiled on the bed, on Brock’s pillow. Jack was almost out of sight when a flicker of spotted coat flashed through the trees and a bobcat came out on the path in front of him. Jack froze; the cat froze. They stared at one another for a moment, tense and tightly-wound. Then the bobcat darted off under the brush, and Jack disappeared deeper into the woods.

* * *

**The passage of time as it varies by season**

In the past day, the weather had changed. The wind was colder and more biting, the sky less startlingly clear. Although the cabin stayed snug, to venture outside was to immediately have one’s hair whipped out or one’s hat unexpectedly lifted away.

‘What did you expect?’ Jack asked when Brock complained. ‘It’s almost October. We got lucky with the weather.’ He watched Brock pull off his jacket and hang it on the hook by the door; watched while he bent over to undo his shoes. He reached one arm out for Brock, who shuffled across the floor in his socks and let himself be drawn down onto the couch. Jack arranged their limbs, tucking Brock in alongside him and engulfing him in a bear hug.

‘What if we weren’t?’ Brock said, mindlessly twisting a button on Jack’s shirt – dark green today, with some kind of years-old paint smear down one side. The button popped off between his fingers and he palmed it guiltily.

‘Always things to do. Hiking in the snow’s good, if you’ve got the right gear. Skating, if the ice is thick enough on the river. Catch up on your reading. Winter wildlife.’ He shifted, sliding an arm around Brock’s waist and tucking it up under his shirt. ‘Winter’s strange, this far away from town. You have to plan ahead, so you stock up while you can get the truck in and out. Service the generator, sort out a phone line out. Then you just wait it out.’ He waved a hand, searching for the phrase. Brock watched his easy gestures, his thick fingers. ‘Time just stops, you know. There’s no fighting it—’ he poked Brock in the ribs. ‘There’s no fighting it at all. You just have to ride it out. Just gotta wait.’ 

* * *

**I love you, they said. I love you**

Jack spat into his palm and worked his hand between their bodies; Brock arched into his touch with a sharp cry and slid up between Jack’s thighs. He rocked his hips, thrusting between Jack’s legs, lost in the press of hard muscle and slick skin. His hands scrabbled on Jack’s back, on the bedclothes – he flung one arm out erratically and found nothing but air. He came all in a rush, holding his breath and gripping the edge of the loft platform until his fingers burned, skin on fire and throat dry from panting and crying out.

‘You really meant that, huh?’ Jack asked later, when they were curled around one another, dozing. Brock was on his front, Jack’s arm and leg over him pressing him to the mattress.

‘Can’t hold a man to what he says during sex,’ replied Brock, stretching and luxuriating in the soft, loose feeling of his muscles. His fingers brushed the low ceiling for a moment. He rolled over, shifting under Jack’s weight.

‘Hold you down, make you say it again.’

‘You heard me the first time,’ said Brock. ‘Fifteen years, asshole. Or is it sixteen?’ He frowned up at the ceiling. Jack counted off on his fingers.

‘Seventeen next summer,’ he said, and Brock cast a look at him from under his arm. ‘What? I counted.’

‘It’s almost as if you give a shit,’ Brock said and Jack hummed in agreement.

‘Almost as if I do,’ he said. ‘Imagine that.’ And he sounded faintly surprised, faintly gratified. 

* * *

**Submersion in cool water**

‘One last swim before we leave?’ Brock asked, and Jack immediately grabbed their towels, grinning wide and easy.

‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘Living the simple life. It’ll be cold, though.’

‘It’s always cold,’ said Brock. ‘First thing I’m doing when I get home is ordering a pizza. Second thing is having a hot shower.’

They walked down to the bank and kicked off their shoes. Jack hung his shirt and jeans over the big fallen branch that had become a bench for them. He ploughed straight into the cold water as always, big ripples around his thighs leaving a wake. With the weather turned almost into winter, it was really too cold to be swimming, but Jack didn’t even flinch. Brock made his way down the rocks, turned to face the bank and then let himself fall in backwards. The icy water winded him and he started swimming to keep warm. They drifted downstream a little and swam back a few times in silence.

‘Are you ready to go home?’ Jack asked finally, sculling over with lazy grace and holding himself against the current with gentle circles of his wrists.

‘No,’ Brock said, but Jack rolled in the water and started back to the bank with strong strokes and Brock, helpless, followed.

 


End file.
